Coruscating Scarlet
by burgundyred
Summary: Draco watches, Hermione bleeds, and they are together in essence yet forever apart as they rip their bodies with passionate fervor. [Draco, Hermione] Warning: DARK One-shot.


Coruscating Scarlet

Disclaimer: Characters are JK Rowling's. Please don't sue me.

**Summary**: I've been watching her for days now, as she explores her soul, watching the river of crimson flow steadily down her pale arm. My own blood a rusty copper contrast, her succulent red only more beautiful beside it. Together in our essence, but forever apart as we rip our bodies with passionate fervor. [DMHG] 

Author's Note: Dark one-shot.

Now I know what makes her so beautiful—the rich crimson that nourishes her soul, that beauty that she lets flow every now and then. I love it—and I sit here and lust after it. I catch her in the bathroom every single day, if only to catch a glimpse of that succulent blood. The red contrast against her pale skin, the river of crimson flowing steadily down her arm! It looks so sweet, so tantalizing…but it's tainted, and somewhere in the back of my mind an admonishing conscience reminds me that it's filth—she's only a mud blood.

When I see her take the sharp silver of the blade and press its crook against her pale flesh, shuddering lust rocks my body and I can feel it travel down my spine, caressing my lower back—almost as if it's her bloody hands, circling my body and taunting it with visions of that gorgeous deep scarlet color, coruscating down her arm like a river.

She never cries when she does it—she simply watches, sometimes with a wistful, half-hearted smile caressing her lips. I want to caress those lips, to nibble on them and see if the same deep red flows through them as well. Maybe that's why her lips are so full of energy and vibrancy. Blood like hers can enhance anything.

The first time I saw her, my mind reeled in the shock—but I couldn't forget how happy she looked when she did it. The happiest I'd seen her in years, even though we haven't spoken a word since our fifth year. Our lives, once intertwined in hate and an undertone of sexual excitement, have faded from each other's, gently, smoothly, easily. I suppose it's because we never really knew each other as anything besides the tarred insults we sent flying at each other. But when Potter died in sixth year, I knew I could never say a word to the other two. I'm cold-hearted, fierce, and quite happily affiliated with the people that caused his death. Yet her eyes. Blood-shot eyes—they kept me away from them, and I haven't spoken to her since.

So when I caught her in the bathroom that day—I had heard moaning noises, from what I presume was a ghost that resided in the bathroom—I feasted my eyes on her beautiful blood and simply watched. I couldn't—wouldn't—say anything; didn't want to ruin a special moment for the both of us.

Blood has always appealed to me, I suppose, with its twisted wonders, its ingenious way of keeping the soul alive. I can never see why people associate it with death, destruction, and fear—blood is what keeps us alive, blood is what feeds us the nutrients we need, blood is the essence of our bodies.

And yet, it represents evil.

When I saw her exploring her blood, a part of me began to stir, and I wanted to explore my soul as well. That day, about four days after I had watched her toy with her body, carving exquisite patterns on her pale skin, I found sharp silver and mimicked her actions on my own skin. It was a disappointment—while the feeling was ephemerally lovely, it was fleeting—and I knew instantly why she had to do it everyday. It was an addiction, and before I knew it, I was addicted too. My own blood was a rusty copper contrast, her succulent red only more beautiful beside it. 

And so day by day passes, where at exactly six-thirty in the evening, after quietly nourishing her body, she goes to release the tensions and the uncertainty of the world in that moaning bathroom. And at exactly six-thirty-two, I follow her out, and in the depths of the shadows, we both use the knife to pure ourselves of the world's filth.

She doesn't know I'm here though, and now I want to talk to her. I want to tell her that I sympathize, that I know the beauty of exploration, that I am deeply in love with the color and passion of her blood…but she'll never understand. I want to taste it, I want to see if it really is as filthy as I've always thought it would be…it looks so clean, so pure. Could it really be that bad, I wonder? But I'll never know. If I dare say a word she'll squash this tiny moment of peace and surreal visions that I've quietly come to accept as the best part of the day—and we would never be together anymore. Somehow, I like to think of us as together—together in our essence, but forever apart as we rip our bodies with passionate fervor. 

Still, I'm overcome with desire every time I see her, I want to taste the blood on every part of her…her marble-like exterior, where she comes across as studious and lively and so steady…and her turbulent interior, where she's just a rotting carcass like the rest of us. Like me.

A long time ago, my father asked me if I was unhappy with my life, if I was…_depressed._ Depressed—that's a word that I could never apply to the two of us. The connotations of 'depressed' are so vulgar, so powerfully corrupted, that who would ever call himself 'depressed'? I denied it vehemently, because I knew even then, that I wasn't depressed. I felt separated from the rest of society, separated by blood, quite literally and figuratively—Purebloods are dying out these days, and somehow, it's not everything it's cracked up to be.

I want to mingle her blood with mine, so we create karmic balance, neither pure blood or mud blood, no bounds on society, no duties, responsibilities, no hate, no pain…only lingering perfection. I want her to know that together we represent ultimate power, yet ultimate loss. A paradox of despondent precision. 

Today's different, my blood seems to be flowing in the opposite direction, tingling with the buzz of excitement, the ache of knowing that something important is about to happen. It's six-thirty, and there she is, tiptoeing out of the Great Hall. I wait, exactly two minutes, before I excuse myself from those beneath me, those who have yet to discover the letting of their blood, those who have yet to understand the complex realities that we all suffer, and follow her out.

She's there, as usual, and she's got that gleaming silver colored blade, pressed to the crook of her arm, poised, ready…and almost waiting. As I bury myself into the shadows, fishing around in my cloak for my replica of that carved symbol of release, she speaks. I'm frozen solid, like an ice cube, but ready to shatter and dissolve into the abyss of nothingness if her words are hateful.

They're not. They're surprising, eloquent, and surrealistic. I can't believe she's saying them, that she's _accepting_ me, even though I tormented her on a daily basis for the first five years that I knew her. And then…then I just ignored her, failed to acknowledge her because of her blood…her beautiful blood. Life is so cruel sometimes.

"Draco," she says softly, and I'm both repulsed and attracted by the way my name melts out of her mouth, "the blade looks like your eyes."

I emerge from the shadows, enthralled, astounded, and undoubtedly pleased—she thinks like me. She says the first thought that rolls out of her head, without caring what I'll think of it. Here we are, and once again I'm reminded of how we're together in so many ways, but because of the imposing boundaries, we're always apart. "What?" I whisper, and the dim lighting flickers against her honey hair, thick frizzy mass of imperfect ambiguity, yet sensual allurement.

"Your eyes. It gleams silver and inviting…just like your eyes." 

I've never thought about my eyes. They're just organs to see the world around me, to notice its curved corners like a frowning mouth, almost as if it's mocking us for being in it, for considering ourselves worthy enough to walk upon the soft russet soil that it offers.

At the same time I'm confused, and I feel belittled, like something's missing from her speech, almost as if she's mocking me. And another thought occurs simultaneously—how is she so accepting of my presence? How long has she known that I'm here? If she ever knew, that is. "Do you know…that…" I trail off. If she doesn't know, I don't want to inform her that I come here every single day, and let my blood form pools on the floor in the dark just the same way that she does. I don't want her to know that I watch her, lust after her, and am utterly and completely infatuated by her filthy, beautiful blood.

"I've known for a long time, Draco," she says quietly. "And I don't care if you do the same thing in the shadows—I don't care if you watch me—but I wanted to know why you were so secretive."

Tension erupts out of my body, tension that I didn't even know that I had. And suddenly I'm free and light and soaring on my dark cloud of pain and frosty icicle hearts, but maybe we are together then…spiritually, at least. "Oh," I whisper, and suddenly she begins to dig into her arm with the blade, and my thoughts die out one by one until all I can concentrate on is the magnitude of the blood flowing.

We work in companionable silence, the two of us, until we're clean enough to go, until we've gotten the maximum pleasure out of our disgusting, superior habit, until we know that the silence is going to turn awkward any minute. She whispers something as we leave, and it fills me with a surge of hope and this odd feeling that the sexual undertone that I've always felt between us is back. "Tomorrow, then," she says, and she leaves quickly, her robes billowing out behind her, flapping in the wind, as if dangerously leading me forward into a world where I'm vulnerable once again.

I curse myself. For years, since fifth year, since the year when I've been exposed to so much death and destruction (which, I can assure anyone who cares, doesn't even involve very much blood), since the year when my soul was ripped away from my body and handed on a silver platter to the Dark Lord himself, since I stopped caring about anything and everything, since I withdrew inside my own little cocoon—I've never opened up to anyone. And here, here I'm sharing something special with someone I thought I'd never talked to again. Hermione. Even her name's different, and it's like an omen. An omen that I'm sure never to forget.

The next day, the same thing happens again. She leaves, I follow, and this time, we converse at a greater length…we share that ephemeral feeling of joy and high stupor when we cut our bodies and compare the blood. It's so much better when it's shared, it's like the feeling's multiplied and it lasts longer, even. And then suddenly I don't know what I'm doing…I feel like all the maturity that I've gained has seeped down me just like the blood and I'm back to being that hormonal teenager. I've pulled her closer to me, hell, I've talked to her _twice_, and I've already pulled her closer to me, and I do it. Press her blood-filled lips against my thinner ones, delving into my sordid imagination and doing everything I'd dreamed of doing. I'm nibbling her lip, tasting her blood, and it's better—better!—than what I thought it would taste like. My suspicions are confirmed. She can't have filthy blood, not when it tastes so succulent, not when it tastes so good…

She doesn't seem to care that I'm kissing her. She kisses right back, nibbling against my lip, drawing _my_ blood. I can't see how she likes it, it's boring, aristocratic, full of so many hateful memories and so many annoying obligations. But she seems to like it, and my theory, the one about our blood mingling to create a greater whole, seems to be pretty accurate.

We hate each other, yet we are intoxicated by the other's essence. 

She pulls away and breaks the spell. "I've wanted to do it for a long time," she whispers erratically against my neck, and I'm amazed, spellbound, even, that she's known that I've been watching her for so long. And it makes me feel something I haven't felt before, new emotions stirred up somewhere deep in my interior where I don't even bother to explore.

Hermione's in a frenzy now, and I don't know why. She grabs her beckoning blade, and places it firmly against my arm. In my other hand she thrusts my own blade, which is lying on the floor, waiting for me to finish up with her lips, and instructs me to press it against her arm. We dig into each other, deeper, deeper, and even deeper. I've never gone this deep before. My arm's stinging, and by the tears forming in her dark coffee eyes, I can tell that she's in just as much pain, and just as much release at the same time.

It feels good, almost too good, as we delve deeper and deeper. Her blood's staining my hands now, and though my vision's blurring a little bit, I can tell that my rusty blood is seeping gently onto her fingers as well. We don't stop. We keep going and going and going until I want to protest, but I'm too weak to do it. And finally, after what seems like forever, so much longer than what we originally planned, we collapse to the floor, right next to each other.

Even though I'm still now, I feel like I'm falling, hurtling into the core of some heated object, until I hear a clatter. For a second I panic, I'm worried that some teacher's discovered our appalling habit, but it's only the knives hitting the floor like shards of glass. I can't feel anything now, because my body is slowly turning to crooked ice. The numbness is deep inside my pores now, and then suddenly, the mask of beauty and goodness dies. I'm scared now. We've gone too far, I can feel it, I'm weak, and aching…and terrified that this is the end.

I look over at her, and her eyes are so wide, like she's just realized exactly what we've done as well. We scramble, trying to get up but finding we really can't, that we're confined to the floor in our weak state and that our blood is constantly pouring out. We're growing colder, and my vision is slowly dying out. My soul seems to be trying to break free of my bleeding body, trying to escape the hatred and the pain that I've built my walls upon. I'm tempted to sleep now, close my eyes, and let myself surrender, when something catches me eye. And in my hazy, slow, and painful death, I notice something extraordinary.

On that cold, bathroom tile, where our bodies lie, hers already breathing shallow, mine slowly becoming a haunted corpse, on that sickening floor…our blood has mixed together, creating a deep burgundy color, as it pools together. It has mingled, and by some bizarre miracle, or maybe a terrible fate, we're actually one.

A/N: I just felt so compelled to write it, that it seemed to write itself. It's just a one-shot, I thought it was pretty clear and understandable, but if it's not, tell me. Anyway, you've read this far, so please review. I really want to know what people thought of this one. 


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